


the petal flesh beneath the robe they part

by seventhstar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Regency, Forbidden Love, Intercrural Sex, Lactation Kink, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Katsuki Yuuri, Omega Victor Nikiforov, Period-Typical Homophobia, Regency, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 11:32:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14748009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: In which omega Yuuri Katsuki abandons all sense to have a forbidden affair with his beloved, omega Viktor Nikiforov.





	the petal flesh beneath the robe they part

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roses_and_phantoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roses_and_phantoms/gifts).



> me: to do list five miles long  
> also me: did someone say omega/omega regency porn????? i'm here

Viktor's kiss is the first Yuuri has ever enjoyed. The touch of his mouth over Yuuri's, fierce with feelings wholly unknown to Yuuri until this moment, is like the sunlight after a long storm. The colors of the world change entirely.

"Did you not know?" Viktor asks, voice wracked with emotion.

"No," Yuuri says softly.

"Zolotse," Viktor whispers. He cups Yuuri's cheek with a trembling hand.

There are no words for the thunder in Yuuri's breast. He surrenders to the pleasure of it, tips his head back to give Viktor his lips again.

 

* * *

 

They lie in bed together that night, as always. Yuuri holds Viktor's hand. His skin feels raw from all the cosmetics he’s wiped away, all the desperate attempts to entice an alpha who repulses him. He remembers Viktor saying _I wanted a husband who would never touch me_ when Yuuri had asked him _why._ Why marry an alpha three times his age? Why settle for so little when Viktor could have had his pick of every bachelor in town? Why marry an old man and be widowed at twenty-seven?

 _Now_ Yuuri understands.

“The number of parties I have suffered through on your behalf,” Viktor says.

“I thought you were in love with him.”

“I love _you.”_

“Oh,” Yuuri says. He knows Viktor loves him, for Viktor has said it before. But he has never comprehended so much in the idea. “Is that...allowed?”

Viktor’s finger tighten over his own, like Yuuri is the anchor holding him fast in a sea of despair.

“It feels right.”

Yuuri shivers. He tries to comprehend being without these feelings; he realizes, somehow, that he has always had them. _Viktor,_ he thinks, and curls into his body.

“Yes.”

He brushes his lips against Viktor’s face. Viktor sighs, long and slow. His lashes flutter as he starts to fall asleep; Yuuri watches him, heart too full for words.

 

* * *

 

The season passes in an impatient blur. They go to the same whirl of card parties, dinners, balls, concerts, plays, rides in the park, shopping, too many activities to remember or name. Everywhere Yuuri goes, he goes with Viktor, and everywhere they are, no matter what they are engaged in, all Yuuri can think is that he could be at home kissing Viktor, and instead is not.

Lord Chadwick continues to court Yuuri. His attentions seemed bizarre to Yuuri before, when Viktor was with him, outshining him. Who would prefer Yuuri, the son of innkeepers who had starved and scraped to give Yuuri the education of a gently-bred omega? He would never be able to feign the noble ennui that Viktor carried with him like a shadow.

Tonight they are at a ball. It is a private ball, held by a lady Yuuri hardly knows. None of his partners please him; Lord Chadwick, caressing his waist during the waltz, disgusts him; the crush and the smell of sweat and smoke is too much. At least Yuuri’s gown is new; the delicate blue muslin was a gift from Viktor’s aunt, Countess Lilia Baranovskaya. His hands are clammy under the leather opera gloves.

“Yuuri?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you feeling well?” Viktor strokes his arm lightly. His maid has braided strands of gleaming pearls into his hair. Yuuri blinks at him. “Shall we go home? Is it too much for you?” He ducks his head to touch his nose to Yuuri’s throat. “Yuuri.”

“What is it?”

Yuuri wrinkles his nose as Viktor tries to draw him closer to the wall, out of sight. Viktor’s protectiveness, often endearing, is oppressive to his nerves. He pushes Viktor’s hands away.

“I am fine.” He peers at the ballroom, where there are a few disgruntled alphas eying them; Viktor must have abandoned his partners. “Go and dance.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor repeats. He’s frowning, now, his forehead bisected neatly by the furrow of his brow. “Your scent…”

“What of it?”

But even as Yuuri snaps out the retort, he feels Viktor’s fingers brush against the scent gland on his neck again, and this time the warmth that spreads under his skin is unmistakable. As usual, Yuuri has lost track of the months, gotten too lost in the throngs to keep in touch with his own body. He shudders under Viktor’s hand.

 _Of all the times to go into heat,_ Yuuri thinks miserably. He leans into Viktor for a moment before sighing.

“I could walk home…”

“What idiocy! I’ll call for our carriage; we shall both go.”

“But the ball…”

“Hang the ball,” Viktor grumbles. “As if I want to watch Lord Chadwick dribble over you all evening...come.”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri is astonished to find that Viktor has gone ahead with preparations for both their heats without consulting Yuuri on the matter at all. Yuuri’s usual practice is to retreat to his Aunt Minako’s home, where he barricades himself beneath her bed and they pray no one thinks to interrupt them. In truth, Viktor’s arrangements are more sensible than Yuuri’s; certainly his home is more secure, and his townhouse has a full heat suite with attached bath.

Yuuri’s foremost problem is Viktor himself, because Viktor appears to be under the impression that Yuuri wishes for them to spend their heats together. And this is not at all the case. Kissing is one thing; everything else Viktor seems to be imagining is quite another.

“In the same room?”

“Why not? It shall be just as it was when we were in school.”

The very idea makes Yuuri sick to his stomach. The chaperoned heats he had endured at school were among the worst memories of Yuuri’s life. Omegas in heat could not be trusted alone, of course, not away from home. So there would be two meager nests in one room, two furtive and overwrought omegas biting their lips to keep silent. The only thing Yuuri particularly enjoys about his heat is the isolation; at school even that was taken.

He has always privately suspected that the school pairs omegas together to shame them out of actually performing any of the lustful acts that are only allowed in heat. As if this extra heaping of suffering would add to their virtue. At least he and Viktor were far apart enough in age to never have been paired.

“I would rather not…”

“Why?”

“I would rather not you see me in such a state.”

“Would it be so awful if I did?” Viktor drops the armful of sheets he has been arranging aimlessly to come to Yuuri’s side. He winds around him from behind, the way ivy does on an old house. “If I saw you,” he punctuates each phrase with a kiss against Yuuri’s neck, “and heard you,” another kiss, “and touched you,” Viktor’s lips brush the bare skin above Yuuri’s collar, “and tasted you?”

His heart is pounding so fiercely Yuuri fears he might succumb to stereotype and swoon. He thrusts Viktor away from him.

Viktor’s seductions are too practiced; what does he imagine Yuuri will do with him should they remain together? Whatever his expectations, Yuuri dreads having to fulfill them. His desires are as formless as they are vast. Love is not enough, he thinks. Not when the season is near over and Yuuri’s return to Hasetsu is approaching. Viktor’s estate is on the other side of England; it may as well be on the moon. Indeed, Yuuri would prefer that; at least then he might look at Viktor when they were apart.

What is worse, he wonders. To have whatever this is with Viktor now and then be parted from him, or to refuse to risk it?

“How many?”

“How—how _many?”_

“How many other lovers did you—if you grow bored of me, too, how will I ever—”

Viktor stares at him; his expression is quite ridiculous, like a fish flopped up on the shore. Yuuri stifles an inappropriate burst of laughter. He must not hide his mirth successfully, for Viktor scowls deeply at him and then turns away, to stalk across the room until he is at the window. The grey light of the city casts his back in shadow.

It is gothic nonsense to think of it as an omen, but Yuuri still pulls his wrap tighter, shivers.

“It was just Chris.”

“Chris—your _son?”_

“He is not my son! He is married to my late husband’s daughter—who is ten years my senior. Chris’s wife is away at sea nine months out of twelve. She told Chris to do as he pleased whilst she was gone.” Viktor seizes him by the shoulders. “Will you hold that against me—that I preferred his company to that of the man I married?”

The idea of Viktor’s late husband laying even a finger on Viktor is revolting. But the idea that Viktor has had other lovers, that Yuuri might be merely a convenient outlet for a forbidden desire, is equally so. It’s too much; Yuuri cannot bear it. He covers his mouth with his hands, lest words he cannot take back slip out, and flees.

 

* * *

 

To Yuuri’s relief, he has only been cloistered at Minako’s home for a few hours before Viktor bursts in and demands to see him. Hidden behind the door to Minako’s bedroom, Yuuri watches Viktor argue—first with Yuuri’s maid, Minami, and then with Minako himself—until Viktor is nearly scarlet with emotion.

“I know he is here,” Viktor says.

“Whether he is or not, you have no right to demand he wait on you.”

“By god, I will not leave until Yuuri comes and sends me away himself,” Viktor snaps. “It’s not safe here. Surely you would wish him to spend his heat with more than a locked door for protection.”

“I wonder if the danger at your home might not be equally great.”

Yuuri closes his eyes. So Minako has guessed the truth. He wraps his arms about himself, and longs suddenly for Viktor’s embrace, for the security that has always come in his arms. After a trying day of school, or a particularly dreadful dinner party, after the worst of Yuuri’s faux pas, Viktor had always been there to comfort him. He wonders why Viktor gives himself the trouble; surely he might replace Yuuri with more suitable friends.

It is, Yuuri is forced to admit to himself, a rather foolish way to go about having an illicit affair. Viktor must be more serious about him than that. Viktor is not stupid.

He steps out from behind the door. Viktor lays eyes on him and his whole body bends toward Yuuri, the way flowers do to the sun.

“V-Viktor.” Yuuri glances at Minako; his expression must be piteous, for she only shakes her head before excusing herself. As she passes, she squeezes his shoulder in warning. “Good afternoon…”

“Please come back.” Viktor comes to him, arms outstretched. He is within inches of taking Yuuri’s hands before he withdraws. “Darling. I had another room opened up, you need not spend a moment with me ever again. Only do come home with me.”

“What are we doing?”

“At present? We are talking, I hope.”

“You know what I mean.” Yuuri lowers his voice, wrings his hands. “You know that what you want from me—it is wrong. We aren’t married, it’s not...I have to marry...it cannot be allowed. It shouldn’t be.”

“Is that that what you want?”

“My parents have spent so much money, Viktor, I have to repay them.”

“Yes,” Viktor says, “but is that what you _want?”_

“I don’t know,” Yuuri says despairingly.

Viktor gently picks up Yuuri’s clammy hand and cradles it in his own. “I do not mean to distress you.”

“It is not you who distresses me.” Yuuri sighs. “I can’t help but think of my family. How can I disappoint them?”

“I forced myself to marry, because that was what my family expected.” Viktor cups Yuuri’s face in his hands. “And I was miserable for it.” He blinks back tears.

Yuuri has to close his eyes. After Viktor’s wedding, no one had seen hide or hair of him for above six months. Over the two years Viktor was married, he had seen Yuuri twice, written to him only a handful of times. The letters were patently false in their lightness; Yuuri had known Viktor was unhappy, had not understood why Viktor had not chosen a spouse who would entertain and cosset him.

“I have molded myself to please the world’s eyes, and found no happiness in it, except when you were at my side. And I am resolved now to act, for once, in accordance with my own happiness, and no one else’s.”

“Viktor—”

“I will not tell you how to act,” he says. “But I beg you to do the same. You have a family that cares for you; they would not have you act against your inclination for their sake, I hope.”

If Yuuri had even one ounce of courage, he would kiss Viktor then. If he were brave, as Viktor is, he would declare the world is nothing to him. But Yuuri still fumbles through pleasantries at parties, misses notes in pieces when he plays in public: he is cowardly, and always has been, and can only watch as Viktor presses his hand and turns to leave.

He is at the door, hand on the wood, when something quite wild and unlike him seizes Yuuri.

“Wait!”

Viktor waits.

“I’ll get my pelisse,” he says. He takes it from the closet while Minako glares at him, her expression quite dreadful. “Goodbye,” he tells her.

She shakes her head at home, but she does not let him go until she has given him a heavy purse she unearths from beneath her mattress. Yuuri tries to convince her to keep it, but to no avail. She insists.

“Who knows what will happen? If you are ever in need, you will have it.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“I hope he is as you wish,” she says, and she helps him with his bonnet. “I’ll speak to your family. Go, before I change my mind.”

He embraces her very tightly. He packs what things he has left at Minako’s home, and clutches his battered valise to his chest as he finds Viktor still waiting in the front room. Viktor takes his hand to lead him out to the carriage, and Yuuri allows himself to be led: if he thinks too much on what he is doing, he will never manage to do it. It is best not to think of it until it is too late.

 

* * *

 

Viktor’s estate is a dreary, isolated place. Yuuri has only come once before, to keep Viktor company during his mourning after his husband’s passing.

It is far in the north, so far that Yuuri is worried both of them will go into heat before they reach it. But Viktor assures him that he owns another property between London and Petra, as his main home is called, so there is no danger of that. Viktor’s carriage is plush and well-sprung, and Yuuri spends much of the drive sleeping in great comfort on Viktor’s shoulder. It is only when they arrive at the house, on a grey and rainy afternoon, that Yuuri hears the rumble of approaching thunder and shudders.

“This is your house?”

“It is quite hideous,” Viktor says, smiling. “But we will not be interrupted, I assure you. This is a part of the country where people prefer to be aloof from their neighbors.” They go out of the rain into the house; everything is large, and painted a dark color, and looming. “Besides, after the way my husband treated visitors, I doubt anyone will ever dare step foot here again. When I entertain I go to my summer home.”

“Naturally,” Yuuri says. “Your summer home.”

“I wrote ahead to have the heat suite aired,” Viktor says. “Shall we go and see?”

“Yes…”

“There is another nesting bed in the guest suite that I will have to have hauled up.”

“Oh.”

“Unless you would rather…”

“In the same nest? How would we fit?”

“Very closely.”

“Did you and Chris—”

“Never.”

Yuuri swallows, mouth dry. “Could I have a bath?”

Viktor agrees with great alacrity, and Yuuri is herded into Viktor’s private chamber by a maid before he knows his right from his left. The maid undresses him, though Yuuri protests he is in traveling dress and entirely capable. Finally, he manages to dismiss her so that he can settle himself in the tub. The water is steaming, and the tub enormous. He sinks down under the water until the water is kissing his chin.

 _This is Viktor’s personal tub,_ he thinks, if the pattern of roses engraved around the rim is any indication. He hopes he is not depriving Viktor of a bath. Perhaps Viktor is bathing, in one of the guest tubs: letting his maid unlace his stays, tipping his head back as warm water is pouring over his loose hair, washing his heat-swollen—

It’s not until he tastes blood that Yuuri realizes he’s bitten the inside of his cheek.

For all Yuuri knows, Viktor is very sedate and proper during his heat, just as all the hygiene books Yuuri was made to read in school said. Then again, Viktor has admitted to Yuuri to bedding his son-in-law in his husband’s house. He might even be misbehaving outside of heat. He might do anything. But Yuuri ought not to even think of it.

_Would it be so awful if I did?_

Yuuri touches the scent gland on the inside of his thigh with two fingers. It is a little swollen, now, and flushed. Under the lightest touch of his hand, it leaves Yuuri trembling in the water. Yuuri’s thigh is disappointingly doughy.

He imagines, for a moment, that it is Viktor’s thigh instead—that Viktor is there with him in the tub, legs folded over Yuuri’s leg—that Yuuri could press his thumb into the center of Viktor’s scent gland until Viktor—

Yuuri snatches his hand away from his leg, appalled and ashamed and full of longing.

 

* * *

 

The efficiency of Viktor’s staff is quite unreal. By the time Yuuri’s bathwater has gone cold, a maid has come; he delivers a hot towel and a woolen dressing gown as well as the news that the heat suite has been prepared and his lordship is awaiting Yuuri upstairs. While Yuuri dries himself, a white box tied off elaborately with ribbon is set before him.

“A gift from his lordship,” the maid says. “The stairs at the back go upstairs, sir. You may proceed whenever you wish. Is there anything I can instruct the kitchen to prepare?”

“Katsudon?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“It’s pork. Breaded pork, and rice, and egg....oh, never mind. Whatever Viktor wishes.”

“Yes, sir. Will you be requiring anything else?”

“No.”

The maid leaves him. Yuuri finishes toweling dry his hair before turning to the white box. His name has been written beneath the bow. Yuuri tugs the free end of the ribbon to untie it, then folds the ribbon for safekeeping before lifting the lid of the box.

Inside is a heat gown, and not just any heat gown. It is made of some shimmering and transparent material, in blue, the fabric as soft as the petals of a rose. Yuuri holds it up to the light; it tints the flame of the candle behind it blue. Delighted, Yuuri sheds his dressing gown and dons it.

The whisper of the fabric over his skin is like a caress. Yuuri closes his eyes. He is absolutely certain that to allow Viktor to seduce him is wrong.

He is absolutely certain that he will allow it anyways.

He ascends the hidden staircase; it is richly carpeted under Yuuri’s bare feet. The door at the top is ajar. Yuuri stands outside the door, on the landing, and takes a deep breath; the air up here is warmer, and sweeter, laden with Viktor’s heat scent.

Despite himself, Yuuri flushes. The skin over all his scent glands prickles in response.

He opens the door.

 

* * *

 

Viktor is making up the nest. And he is wearing a heat gown, a gown just like Yuuri’s except that it is pink where Yuuri’s is blue. It floats over his body and conceals nothing; it makes Yuuri blush to look too much at him. He turns his eyes everywhere else instead.

Yuuri has never seen another omega make up their nest before. He’s heard that the upper echelons of the ton have maids just to tend to them in heat, to lay out satin sheets and hang silken veils as canopies to preserve their modesty. At school, there was no unseemly nest assembly allowed; they were all issued the same six pillows and three sheets to arrange. Yuuri himself has never even had a proper nesting bed.

(Yuuri has never had a heat gown like this before, either. Maidens are supposed to wear the rough burlap heat gowns that discourage pleasure until marriage. There is some lacey concoction in his trousseau meant for his wedding heat.)

Viktor’s heat suite is lavish, with every modern necessity: an enormous tub, a roaring fireplace with a heavy fur rug laid out before it, a circular nesting bed that could house a horse, and piles and piles of materials—sheets, pillows, fragments of gowns. There’s even a gauzy canopy tied up overhead.

“Viktor?”

“Darling, you’re here.” Viktor drops the pillow he is holding and comes to Yuuri at once. “They’re bringing up the bed, I think.”

“Forget it,” Yuuri whispers. “I—I will stay with you.”

Viktor touches his mouth with his fingertips in surprise; then he goes to a panel in the wall and opens it. Inside Yuuri can see a sheet of paper and a quill. Viktor scrawls across the page before turning a handle that lowers it down. How clever, Yuuri thinks, to have a method of communication with the house without having to countenance any disturbance.

“It is done.”

“Good.”

“Well?” Viktor offers him a pillow. “Shall we arrange things to our liking?”

“W-we?”

“Naturally.”

Yuuri examines the existing nest, prodding the mattress gingerly; it is a featherbed, softer than Yuuri could have ever imagined, laid with crisp white sheets. Viktor has ringed the next halfway with pillows. Yuuri finishes the circle with pillows, rolling up cut up pieces from Viktor’s dresses and lacing them between each pillow so that there is no gap. Meanwhile, Viktor begins to layer flat sheets in the center. They are not white but colored, red and blue and green. Yuuri picks up the opposite corners of the sheet in Viktor’s hand; together they lay down the last of them.

No words are needed. Viktor seems to understand Yuuri’s preferred arrangement intuitively.

The room is very warm. Yuuri tugs at the neck of his dress, which is scooped low and loose, as his skin tingles. Across the nest, he can see the bright flush of an inflamed scent gland on Viktor’s throat.

“Perhaps you ought to lie down, Viktor.”

Yuuri walks around the bed until he is at Viktor’s side. He puts both hands on Viktor’s back and pushes. Viktor climbs obediently into the nest, draping himself over the sheets like a prince. And Yuuri, heart in his mouth, terrified beyond all measure, follows him in. Viktor lets down the canopy, and all the light in the room turns soft and pink in the confines of their nest.

He sinks into the bed, falls into Viktor’s arms. They curl up together like the vines that climb the side of the old estate. Yuuri breathes in the scent of Viktor’s throat, the sweetness of him. And he waits.

Half the candles have gone out when Yuuri is jolted awake by the warmth in his chest. He feels something fiery inside himself, an aching desire for wordless things, and without thinking he turns his head to mouth at Viktor’s bare throat.

Viktor stirs.

His eyes are wide in the gloom as he runs his fingers through Yuuri’s sweat-dampened hair. He blinks as Yuuri stares at him; Yuuri licks his lips, unable to look away from Viktor’s soft expression. He reaches up to touch Viktor’s lips.

Viktor’s tongue darts out to touch Yuuri’s fingertips.

That is too much; Yuuri kisses him. He forgets his lack of skill in favor of licking into Viktor’s mouth. If he could, Yuuri thinks, he would eat Viktor up; he would keep Viktor’s mouth entirely occupied between conversations, allow him to speak to no one else. Alas, too soon Yuuri has to lift his head. Viktor’s lips, wet and parted, are like a flower touched with morning dew.

Viktor holds him tightly, his arms about Yuuri’s waist warm through the thin fabric of the gown.

“Yuuri,” he says.

“I want to make you come,” Yuuri says, and then blushes. He cannot quite believe that such filth has come out of his mouth. No wonder omegas are forbidden to spend their heats with anyone but a husband.

“Anything,” Viktor says eagerly, “only stay with me.”

The idea of leaving Viktor repulses him. Of course he will have to stay here, in the nest, where he and Viktor can be safe. Of course he will stay, to attend to Viktor’s pleasure. He can smell Viktor’s arousal in the air, and breathes deeply, as if to trap the essence of it in his lungs. Had Yuuri been afraid, before? All his memories of fear and doubt are hazy now.

 _I am heat mad,_ Yuuri thinks, but the thought passes as quickly as it comes, chased away by Viktor’s hands caressing his back and shoulders.

He lays his palm flat against Viktor’s chest. In the firelight, he can see Viktor’s body—his stomach like a washboard, his chest topped with puffy pink nipples—so lovely, like a painting of old. Yuuri touches his collarbone first, then the swell of muscle on his chest. He presses his thumb down over Viktor’s nipple, through the fabric; from Viktor’s shudders, Yuuri has hit upon something he likes. The tip starts to harden first, under Yuuri’s ministrations. He toys with it between his forefinger and thumb until it starts to drip heat milk.

Without thinking, Yuuri ducks his head to taste.

It is delicious.

So he sucks. Viktor’s wet gown adheres to his chest as he leaks milk; the fabric, fine as it is, is still too rough on Yuuri’s tongue. He longs for Viktor’s skin, for the softness of him. Instead he flattens the gown against Viktor’s chest and watches the damp patches spread.

“You are too dressed,” he whispers.

“Sorry,” Viktor replies. “I thought—you have never had a heat gown—I wanted to give you one.”

“I do like it.”

“I’m glad.”

Yuuri sprawls himself over Viktor again, plying him with kisses as he tries to ruck up their gowns. His legs open, and Viktor’s thigh falls between them. His flesh touches Yuuri’s cock. Yuuri groans; the sensation seems to travel throughout his entire body, his cock starts to fill, he is dizzy with it. He ruts against Viktor for a a few moments, before remembering that Viktor is still too covered; he lifts the gown up until Viktor can grasp the hem and pull it over his head.

Viktor’s skin is hot under Yuuri’s palms as he touches him properly for the first time. Yuuri pushes down on his blushes just to see the skin blanch; he tastes the sweat on Viktor’s skin with his tongue. Viktor strokes Yuuri’s hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp. The soft, breathy sound of Viktor’s panting is wholly unknown to Yuuri; it stirs in him some unknown instinct. He rubs himself absently against Viktor’s thigh again.

 _So strong,_ he thinks. _No wonder Viktor’s seat on a horse is so good._

“Do you ever ride astride?”

“Are you talking about the horse or yourself?” Viktor asks. He laughs. “I ride astride, yes.”

Yuuri squeezes Viktor’s thigh; it takes more strength than he would like to gain any purchase. He has read so many novels, some of them quite racy. How many scenes has he read, of omegas who were delicate and cowering, of the alphas that made them surrender? The idea that omegas read such things for pleasure was foreign to Yuuri. He used to read such scenes with equal parts dread and morbid fascination. He could never imagine himself in those heroines’ places.

But Viktor, spread out beneath him, muscle flexing beneath the skin, mouth open—Yuuri feels the wetness between his folds flow in response, feels all the quivering desire of a scandalous novel. No one person should have so much loveliness. How is Yuuri to bear it? The emptiness in him increases. He wants to fill himself, or to fill Viktor, he is not sure which.

A slight rearrangement of his hips, and he is locked between Viktor’s thighs, which have closed around his cock tightly. The sensation is—Yuuri has never felt anything like it, his fumbling fingers cannot compare—he seizes Viktor’s hand where it has fallen limp onto the sheets and thrusts against him like a dying man in search of his final moments of pleasure.

Viktor urges him on, hands on his hips. “Yuuri,” he says, and imbues it with more feeling than Yuuri would have thought those two syllables could hold, “Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri—”

Yuuri buries his face in Viktor’s shoulder as his cock rubs against Viktor’s soaking cunt, gasping, spending himself over Viktor, inhaling as Viktor’s scent spikes in his throat.

Collapsed over Viktor, his heartbeat galloping under Yuuri’s lips, Yuuri loses himself for a moment in a wash of sensation and heat. Then he feels the stickiness between his legs and shudders. Viktor blinks at him as he pushes him until he rolls over, but when he sees Yuuri pry up the stained sheet, he assists. Together they lift away the sheet and toss it from the nest. Then Yuuri takes two of the pillows and arranges them carefully to cradle Viktor’s head; he even spreads out the strands of Viktor’s loose hair over the pillows.

The nest smells of both of them now, but it’s not strong enough; it needs to be more theirs. Yuuri strokes Viktor’s throat with one hand and his thigh with the other, drawing soft circles over the scent glands. Viktor’s scent spills out into the air, until Yuuri can almost feel the heat of it in his lungs. He hears a low, rumbling sound.

Viktor is purring.

Yuuri’s heart turns over in delight.

Viktor draws him back down, until they are curled against each other like petals of the same flower. Their foreheads touch; Viktor’s eyelids start to droop, and as his scent changes Yuuri feels exhaustion creep over him.

“Viktor, I didn’t…” _I was going to make him come._

Viktor laughs softly. “You did,” he says, and he kisses Yuuri’s hand as they fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

When Yuuri wakes again it’s because he’s so aroused it hurts.

He squirms in Viktor’s grasp, his slick thighs rubbing together; he reaches down to touch himself, but Viktor is quicker than he. Viktor’s hand slips between his legs, to brush the folds of Yuuri’s cunt. His fingers are cold.

“Viktor—”

“Shh,” Viktor murmurs. “My Yuuri…”

“Please,” Yuuri says. He could not have put into words what he wants if asked. But it does not matter; VIktor smiles at him as he rolls Yuuri over to sit between his open legs.

Viktor’s touch is expert as he buries two fingers in Yuuri’s wet, tender cunt. Yuuri whimpers in relief at being filled. Slick spills out of him as Viktor fingers him, slowly, stroking every quivering inch of Yuuri from within. With his free hand, Viktor grips Yuuri’s cock. His palm caresses the shaft—Viktor has the soft hands of a noble—his thumb playing at the slit.

Yuuri bucks his hips desperately. The feeling of emptiness is returning, though Viktor’s fingers are in him still. This is the part of heat he dreaded, the exposure of his needs, but Viktor makes a soothing sound and bends down to kiss him, even as he adds two fingers more so that he is stretching Yuuri deliciously.

“It’s all right,” he is saying. He withdraws his hand. Yuuri opens his legs further, and Viktor sets his hips between him, so that the head of his cock brushes lightly over Yuuri’s cunt. He parts the lips of Yuuri’s cunt with his fingers; his expression as he stares at Yuuri’s sex is equal parts embarrassing and pleasing. Yuuri squirms again, trying to fit Viktor’s cock inside him, where he wants it. Viktor laughs, but he complies.

Yuuri can feel Viktor’s heartbeat inside him as he thrusts. He hooks his legs over Viktor’s hips, trying to hold him fast and failing; he can’t muster up the strength, or the concentration, to do anything but gasp and tremble. Viktor’s heavy breathing is in time with his own. He jerks Yuuri’s cock furiously with one hand, the other holding fast to Yuuri’s sweaty fingers.

There’s so much heat. Viktor’s skin on his skin is burning, his mouth on Yuuri’s mouth like fire, and when he spends inside Yuuri, it is hot and deep and endlessly satisfying. Yuuri comes for so long that his entire body feels like a banked fire; he drags Viktor down, trying to bring him closer, trying to mark him with his own scent.

Viktor tips his head obediently into Yuuri’s hand; Yuuri lies there, dazed, rubbing the inside of his wrist against Viktor’s cheek and over his hair.

He jumps as Viktor’s hand wanders between them again, flicking lightly at Yuuri’s open cunt. Yuuri sighs as he feels Viktor’s finger penetrate him, the pad of his finger pressing sweetly inside him. Then Viktor puts his wet finger to his mouth.

Yuuri opens his mouth. Viktor strokes his tongue, lets Yuuri suck gently at his well-manicured finger, at his soft wet skin.

Time seems to slip after that—Viktor kisses him again, and somehow they are intertwined in the sheets, sucking on each other’s tongues, Yuuri licking every corner of Viktor’s willing mouth—and Yuuri only recalls himself long enough to help Viktor remake the nest again, discarding more soiled sheets and rearranging the towels and pillows again to cradle Viktor perfectly. He finds himself licking Viktor’s stomach, and then wetting the trail of soft pale hair that leads down to his groin, until he is mouthing at Viktor’s burgeoning erection with clumsy lips.

Somehow Viktor turns him so that Yuuri is astride him, thighs parted over his face. He dips his tongue into Yuuri’s dripping folds; Yuuri sucks him desperately, over and over, until they both come again, and again, and again.

Yuuri falls asleep again in Viktor’s arms; he wakes hungry for him again. The heat comes and goes, unceasing as the tide.

In the throes of heat, Yuuri has no notion of time. It could be dawn or dusk when the final wave breaks and he regains himself utterly. Shame returns, an old and poisonous friend, as Yuuri realizes that he is naked, and sticky, and lying with his legs open in a shameless manner. He shivers—suddenly he is cold—and before he can say a word, a soft blanket is thrown over him.

The wool is warm. Yuuri wraps it around himself and rolls over to see Viktor tuck the free end over his own body, so that they are trapped together underneath it. He takes Yuuri’s hands in his own.

“I ruined the gown,” Yuuri says. “I’m sorry.”

“It was meant to be ruined,” Viktor assures him.

The canopy has been tied back up overhead. The fire continues to burn; the candles have been changed; a tray of sandwiches and a pitcher of water have been delivered. He wonder what it is like to be Viktor, to have such confidence in his own power that he can order the servants to tend to him while he takes Yuuri as his...as his what? As his mistress? His lover?

“Viktor?”

“Mm?”

“What am I to you?”

Viktor considers, humming in thought as he gives Yuuri a sandwich and takes one for himself. They eat quickly, lest they spoil the nest with too many crumbs, and settle back into the sheets close together.

“If you were always with me,” he says, finally, “I would not cared what you called it.”

Yuuri swallows. “Me, too,” he whispers, and lays his head on Viktor’s shoulder.

They lie there until the fire burns to embers, until the room goes cold, until Yuuri’s blood goes quiet. There are things Yuuri ought to be doing, but he neglects them all: here, with Viktor who he loves and who loves him, is more right and true than anything else in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are much appreciated! i know i haven't been updating much--I have so many zine deadlines and I'm going to medical school in five weeks! I'm doing my best ;;;;


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